by Alec Newell
There are
just a handful of landmarks that still remain unchanged since I've lived at the
Beach: the St. John's Lighthouse in Mayport, the Casa Marina Hotel in
Jacksonville Beach, the American Red Cross Lifesaving Station at the foot of
Beach Boulevard and Oceanfront, and of course, everyone's favorite, Pete's Bar
at 117 First Street in Neptune Beach. The liquor license issued to Pete's
Bar in 1933 was number one, making Pete's the first legally sanctioned bar and
package store to operate in Duval County since the 1920 prohibition laws were imposed
by the Volstead Act. In April of 2013, it was rated as one of the top 10 bars in the state of Florida, by UK's The Guardian; but the writer couldn't resist adding, "It's a dive with a lot of history." Pete's still looks
like the kind of bar that could double as a film location for a 1930's era
movie set in Key West. Nothing there
ever changes.
 |
| Pete's package store and cocktail lounge, 1948 |
 |
| Photo by Newell, 2/2014 |
It
would be impossible to calculate how many Beach couples got either married, or
divorced, as the result of a conversation that began with a wink or a smile,
over drinks at Pete's. Everyone at the
Beach, it seems, has stories about the place, not all of them are suitable for prime
time publication. This is mine.
 |
| Photo by Newell, 2/2014 |
In the
summer of 1966, I was 17 years old, had just graduated from Fletcher High
School, and had a summer job as a laborer at the construction site of Place-by-the-Sea, on the old Atlantic Beach Hotel Reservation. William Morgan was
the project's architect, and a young Preston Haskell was the general contractor. I
think I was being paid $1.50 an hour. I could cash my pay check in Pete's Bar and
treat myself to a couple of draft beers to kick-off of the weekend. On the north side of the building, facing the
parking lot of Walt's Neptune Tavern, there was a sign that advertised 15 and
25 cent draft beers, and 35 cent highballs, for well brands. I believe
those prices were still in effect well into the late 1970's. Pool games are still a quarter.
As former classmates went off to
college, or got married and took jobs in other parts of the country, Christmas
and Thanksgiving were the two times a year when you could often run into old
chums, and catch up on current gossip over a game of pool and a couple
of 25 cent draft beers. Typically they would spend a few nights at
home with their parents, then head down to Pete's for the next night or two
before heading back to wherever they'd come from. This may have been the unofficial
beginning of what has become Pete's Bar Thanksgiving Bash. Back
then, Pete's was closed only two days a year, Christmas and Easter.
As former classmates went off to
college, or got married and took jobs in other parts of the country, Christmas
and Thanksgiving were the two times a year when you could often run into old
chums, and catch up on current gossip over a game of pool and a couple
of 25 cent draft beers. Typically they would spend a few nights at
home with their parents, then head down to Pete's for the next night or two
before heading back to wherever they'd come from. This may have been the unofficial
beginning of what has become Pete's Bar Thanksgiving Bash. Back
then, Pete's was closed only two days a year, Christmas and Easter. |
| Vestiges of Pete's Bar as a package store photo by Newell |
For
many years Pete's, because of a strictly enforced segregation policy, was
listed as an "off limits" bar to all military personnel. There was also a strictly enforced policy of
no open "to-go" drinks beyond the front door, but it was not unusual
to see a uniformed Marshall Jimmy Jarboe stroll up the sidewalk and tap on the sliding glass "pass-through" window behind the
bar. There would be a muffled
conversation at the window with Walt Windham the bartender. A few minutes later, something in a plastic
cup would be slid out the window. No
money ever exchanged hands. Business
inside the building continued uninterrupted, without so much as a raised eyebrow. It's how things were.
 |
| Pool table room, former location of the Rite Spot Restaurant |
With its own set of quirky traditions and taboos, there was
an unassailable aura of institutional permanence about the place.
It was more like a club than a bar.
What happened in Pete's, happened in Pete's. The bartender's word was law. To be barred
from Pete's was usually understood to be for
life, and regarded with the same gravity as being excommunicated. There were tunes on the juke box that had
been there since the late 40's or early 50's, and the place was variously referred to as Pete's, Pedro's, Pierre's-by-the-Sea, and Club Ped, by its initiates.
In
1973, when the drinking age in Florida was lowered from 21 to 18, the Dairy Queen on Third Street was deserted
by its regular clientele who moved to Pete's, and took over the
Hut. Pete's Bar and Pete's Hut were two
separate Bars then, connected by a narrow passage-way that ran behind the Rite
Spot Restaurant, (the room where the pool tables are now). The youngsters preferred the Hut side, which
came to be called "Pre-Pete's" or "a training bar" by the
old guard. The bartender in the Hut was
named Marty. Marty always announced
"last call" with his nightly rendition of "Shenandoah" from a trumpet that he kept behind the
bar. If you heard a trumpet blast before
1:45 a.m., it usually meant there was a fight on the other side, and Marty
needed help.
Despite
its low profile appearance, Pete's Bar has been the location of many celebrity
sightings over the years: Ernest
Hemmingway, John Grisham and J.D. Salinger, to name a few. The Salinger sighting was supposed to have
occurred when girlfriend Elaine Joyce was appearing in a production at the Alhambra Dinner Theater.
 |
| Picture of Papa Hemingway (left of the American flag) taken in Pete's |
During
the 50th Pete's Bar Anniversary Celebration in 1983, I remember talking to a little old white-haired
lady with a cane, who remembered coming out to the Beach on Sunday nights, as a
young girl, to party at Pete's. A Jacksonville
news crew had set up lights and a camera, expecting to make a live broadcast
from the bar for the eleven o'clock news that night.
At about 10:45, a newsman with a microphone and a tie began to address a well fortified crowd, asking them to quiet down so "the folks at home" could hear his broadcast. His comments were like tossing gasoline onto a bonfire. A wall of jeering and noise erupted from the celebrants; it continued for the next 30 minutes. The more he pleaded, the louder they got. The broadcast was scrubbed.
At about 10:45, a newsman with a microphone and a tie began to address a well fortified crowd, asking them to quiet down so "the folks at home" could hear his broadcast. His comments were like tossing gasoline onto a bonfire. A wall of jeering and noise erupted from the celebrants; it continued for the next 30 minutes. The more he pleaded, the louder they got. The broadcast was scrubbed.
